Coincidence
by prettybirdy979
Summary: Once is an accident, twice a little odd but three times... Sherlock had better watch his friend carefully


**Disclaimer: Do not own. :(**

**Author's Note: A story written for a Serect Santa over on livejournal. Enjoy!**

* * *

John was getting used to living with Sherlock. It seemed the best way to get rid of all the small problems you had with a guy was to get blown up with him. It was hard to get upset about the arsenic in the toaster or the rabbit ears under the T.V when you remembered having to pull the bleeding body of Sherlock out of a burning building. And you could remember him sitting by your bedside for a week while you fought an infection and the hallucinations it brought with it.

That's not to say there weren't any problems anymore. It was just harder for John to pull Sherlock up for them when he could remember the shock and fear in Sherlock's eyes when he had seen John standing there at the pool. Now he knew how Sherlock cared and he revelled in it.

He didn't realise how much he would come to rely on that particular knowledge in the days to come.

* * *

It was two weeks since John had been released from hospital and he was still on 'light rest'. He had been hit by both the bomb blast and falling debris and had cuts and wounds along his back and legs. Sherlock had escaped with a minor head wound and fractured wrist.

And now he was trying to pursue Moriarty. He had covered the flat walls and floor in newspaper articles and police files, trying to search for a pattern, the web by which he could trace Moriarty.

John had been watching him for the last twenty minutes, having been forbidden to turn the telly on and unable to get across the room to get a book.

Eventually he stood and grabbed his cane, which he was using until his stitches came out tomorrow. He headed for the door, pulling on his coat.

'Sit down, you're distracting me.'

'Sorry. I'm going out for groceries so it won't be a problem anymore.'

Sherlock looked up confused. 'Why are you going out?'

'Because we need milk and food…'

'But Moriarty'

'Would think it boring to do the same thing twice. Besides, Mycroft is watching my every move. I'll be fine.'

Sherlock huffed and returned to his analysis.

* * *

John was on his way back from the shop, hands full of bags when it happened. He was the other side of Baker St and he went to cross the road, checking both ways before stepping out. Just then, he heard a car braking and looked up to see a black car coming right at him. His eyes widened and he jumped back, dropping his bags. The car slowed and seeing he was fine, sped up and continued on its way. Shaking, John picked up his dropped bags, trying to figure out how he had missed that car.

He was still a little shaky when he entered the flat but he decided put the incident out of his mind as an accident.

Accidents did happen, especially when one was distracted by thoughts of criminal masterminds.

* * *

It was a week later and John was on his way to work. He was running a bit late and it seemed everything was going wrong. First his alarm hadn't gone off so he had slept in. Then, Sherlock had decided to experiment on his work shirt, forcing him to find a new one. Except they were all in the wash, so he had had to rescue one but it took him six tries to find one without some form of stain on it. He was running so late he hadn't had time for breakfast.

Then he didn't make the train, so had to wait for the next one which got him to work on time but barely, meaning he wasn't going to be able to grab a cup of anything before work.

It was then, as he was waiting on the tube and in an increasingly bad mood that someone walked into him.

It was a guy, big and bulky walking and talking on his phone and not watching where he was going. He ran into John, and somehow managed to knock John's leg out from under him, sending him falling to the ground. John was lucky he didn't throw his hands out to stop his fall, because when he hit the ground, it was hard enough to break something. Coincidentally, that something was the mobile in his back pocket.

The man either didn't notice he had knocked a man to the ground or hadn't cared. He kept walking, leaving John to pull himself to his feet, cursing at him and his stupidity.

Just then John's train pulled into the station and he rushed to catch it. By the end of the day he had forgotten the incident completely except as something to complain about. And whenever he sat down for the next week, there was a phone shaped bruise to remind of it.

Sherlock only cared about the incident in that it required John to get a new phone. And that it gave him the chance to buy John an iPhone which he promptly stole. Life as usual.

* * *

It wasn't until the third incident that Sherlock began to care. This time they had just finished a case, and caught another killer. John had had plans to go down to the pub for a drink with some old school buddies before the case and now it was over he decided to continue with those plans. Sherlock had stalked off once he knew John's plan, leaving him to make his way to the local pub alone.

Two hours later John was slightly tipsy and unable to afford a cab. Well, slightly tipsy compared to the rest of his friends. To the general public, John wasn't sure if he would be considered drunk and was too drunk to figure it out. Waving off his friends' offers to pay for his fare John had decided to walk. After all it was only a few minutes away, what could go wrong?

He had just turned onto Baker Street when a silver car drove by. If John had been sober he would have recognised that it had driven by him a dozen times before. He wasn't, so when the passenger threw something out of the window at him, it came as a complete surprise.

It was only a can of some sort and it only clipped John on the side of the head, but it was enough for him to begin cursing at the car that hadn't seemed to notice what he had done. Holding his hand to the wound, he fumbled with his keys outside his flat and managed to open the door. Still cursing slightly, he thundered up the stairs and headed straight for the 'bleeding' first aid kit which only contained things for this kind of injury. It was under the first aid kit for sprains and breaks, and beside the one for drug related injuries. Still slightly drunk, John mused over the fact that he and Sherlock had enough medical supplies to run their own hospital before the pain in his head became overpowering and he moved into the living room to deal with it.

Sherlock was there and once he saw John's injury moved to help him.

'What happened? Obviously something on the way back from the pub or you would have dealt with it earlier. And it clearly involved a can of some sort, thrown at your head with considerable velocity.'

John frowned and interrupted. 'Why ask if you're going to tell me?'

'I was under the impression it is the polite thing to do.'

'Since when have you been polite?'

Sherlock nodded slightly to acknowledge the point. 'If it's so important to you, tell me what happened.'

'Nothing really. Just some idiot throwing a can out of their car as they drove past. It barely touched me. Bad luck really.'

Sherlock finished dressing the wound. 'And they just happened to get the exact angle and velocity to hit you? No, this is more than bad luck.' He paused as he thought about it. 'That's your third accident in a month.'

'Bad luck. It's not like I was seriously hurt.' At Sherlock's disbelieving look, John continued. 'Accidents do happen, Sherlock.'

'Once, yes. Twice, occasionally. But thrice? That's a pattern. Someone's after you.'  
John snorted in disbelief. 'Who would come after me?'

'Moriarty.' Sherlock smiled.

John considered this. 'Sherlock?'

'Yes?'

'Do you mind repeating this conversation when I'm sober and able to deal with it?'  
Sherlock smirked.

* * *

Sherlock did repeat the conversation, word for word, to John the next morning as John was lying in bed trying not to throw up as he woke up. John just threw a pillow at him which Sherlock ducked with a slight smile.

Then the words registered and while his headache didn't disappear he found it a lot easier to ignore. 'What?'

'You asked me to repeat our conversation from last night to you when you were sober. I am fulfilling your request. Don't be dull and make me do it again.' Sherlock deadpanned.

'No, not that. The bit about Moriarty being after me. Why would he go after...oh.' John said as it dawned on him what Moriarty was doing.

'Exactly. That took you long enough. You should stop drinking, it lowers your already low intelligence level.'

'Thanks.' John snapped. 'So what do we do?'

Sherlock looked confused. 'About what?'

'Moriarty.' John said slightly annoyed.

'We do nothing. Moriarty is targeting something of mine and I tend to show him what happens when he does something like this.' With that, Sherlock turned and left John's bedroom leaving him with a fuzzy feeling.

_I'm his._ John's smile didn't fade for the rest of the day.

* * *

Sherlock had been hunting for Moriarty before, but that was nothing compared to the level of devotion he was giving the search now. He began to refuse interesting cases from Lestrade in order to chase up another lead, he ate and slept less than ever and John had to get used to nightly violin concerts anytime from 1am to 7am in the morning.

And he refused to take John with him on anything he thought even had the slightest chance of being related to Moriarty. This ended fast, when John put his foot down after the sixth injury and near death incident in as many weeks.

'Look, if you want to leave me behind when you don't need my help, that's fine. But I refuse to sit around the flat waiting for you to come home with another injury because you did something reckless and I wasn't there to stop you.' He said as he bandaged the cut on Sherlock's arm he had hidden from Lestrade.

'And what could you do about it? I doubt you could follow me.' Sherlock said coldly.  
'I don't need to.' John counted. 'I just have to call your brother; he would tell me where you are.'

'He wouldn't.' Sherlock snapped but John could hear that he didn't quite believe it.  
'He would. He cares far more for your safety then mine. And besides, he's smart enough to know we work best as a team.'

* * *

'Hopeless!' Sherlock threw the files he was looking over at the wall. John quickly checked his gun with his eyes to make sure Sherlock couldn't start shooting. He seemed to be in the mood to do so.

'What's hopeless?'

'These cases! They are so very simple it's positively easy to figure out the killer. So why then is Moriarty involved? It doesn't make any sense, he must know I trace his involvement through them.'

'Still no luck then in finding Moriarty?'

Sherlock gave John one of his patented 'you idiot' stares. 'Obviously.' He sneered. 'I know why Moriarty was targeting you and I know how. I just can't seem to use it!'

'Sorry, why was he targeting me?' John asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'To show he could get to you anytime he liked and I couldn't do anything about it.'

'Oh. Makes sense.'

'I kn...oh. Oh!' Sherlock leapt out of his seat and grabbed the discarded file. 'I have him!'  
John began to rise from his seat but Sherlock waved him back down. 'No, don't move. I have to confirm it first.' Sherlock grabbed his coat.

'I can help.' John protested.

'Only if you can pretend to be a homeless teenage girl.' With that, Sherlock swept out of the flat.

John blinked. _Teenage girl...do I want to know?_

* * *

Sherlock was elated when he returned to the flat. He had done it; he had found Moriarty's current hideout. Now all he and John had to do was get a few police to handle the minions and Sherlock could draw the net around Moriarty for good.

He would win.

Sherlock bounded into the flat and was surprised to find it empty. _John wouldn't go out, not with the conversation we had before I left. If anything, he may have tried to follow me but I made sure with Mycroft that he couldn't._ Sherlock then noted that John's laptop was sitting on his chair, still running. He opened it up, to find a Word Doc on screen. It read:

**Lost**

_A Doctor John Watson  
Beloved pet of Sherlock Holmes_

If found, please return to Mrs. Catherine Howard

Sherlock just stared at the message for a moment, before he pulled raced into the kitchen to find his fingerprint kit.

He tried to ignore the feelings of loss, guilt and _fear_ running through him. He didn't do very well, but he tried.

* * *

'Lestrade, I need you run these fingerprints. I doubt it will lead to anything, but I must follow every lead given to me.' Sherlock dumped the prints on Lestrade's desk as he waltzed into his office.

Lestrade just looked confused. 'Sherlock what case are these for? You're not working a case for us, you told me the last three were too boring!'

Sherlock looked irritated. 'This isn't for a case of yours, it's for one of mine and I don't have the time to do it myself.' He turned to leave.

'Sherlock, we're not doing it.' He threw the prints back at Sherlock. 'We have far too many cases to solve without using our precious resources on some small case of yours.'

'Inspector, since when do I take 'small cases'.' Sherlock sighed. 'Remember that bomber? Moriarty?'

'The one who nearly killed you and Dr Watson? Of course.' Lestrade looked offended. Then confused as an important detail registered with him. 'Hang on, where is Dr Watson?'

'That is what I need the fingerprints run for.' Sherlock huffed.

Lestrade's eyes widened and he sat up straighter. 'What do you mean, Sherlock?' he asks wearily.  
Sherlock pauses in the doorway. 'You know exactly what I mean Inspector. John is missing, and every moment you waste in pointless conversation is one less moment I have to find him.'

'Do you have a clue?'

'A name. Mrs Catherine Howard.' Sherlock glances back at Lestrade.

Lestrade looks slightly confused, even as the recognition flashes over his face. Sherlock immediately moves across the room to stand before Lestrade. 'You know that name. Which case? What happened?'

Lestrade shook his head. 'Not a case. I know the name Howard from a project I helped my daughter with last week. Henry Tudor the Eighth, the king with six wives.'

Sherlock is bemused. 'What does a dead king have to do with John?'

'His fifth wife was named Catherine _Howard_… and its said she still haunts the Tower of London…'  
Sherlock's eyes widened. 'Not a case, but a clue!' he smiles even as he darts out of the room.

* * *

Sherlock didn't even make it to the curb before his mobile was ringing. Normally he would have ignored it, but it was a blocked number calling and the only people who had his number were John, Lestrade and Mycroft.

'Sherlock Holmes.'

John's voice came over the phone. 'Sherlock? Where are you?'

Sherlock felt the confusion come into his mind and fought to keep it back. 'Outside Scotland Yard. John, are you all right?'

'I will be. Sherlock, I don't know where I am but I can see a railway and warehouses.'  
Sherlock's mind whirled. He quickly realised that John had gotten free somehow and called him from his capturer's phone. 'Can you see any water? Look out the nearest window and look for water.' He snapped.

John's sigh was audible over the phone. 'There's no water Sherlock. Even I'm not that thick.'

'Excellent. I know where you are, I'll be there.' Sherlock went to end the call but hesitated. 'John?'

'Yes?' Sherlock could hear the worry in John's voice and the faint sound of loud bangs. They were clearly searching for him.

'Be safe.' he hung the phone up and hailed a taxi.

* * *

'Be safe.' Sherlock said then John heard the line go dead. Smiling slightly, he tucked the phone back into the pocket of the man he had borrowed it from. He was currently lying down in what looked to be an awkward position, having been knocked out by John during his desperate escape attempt.

But now he could hear multiple footsteps around him and people yelling at another. John knew they had figured out he had escaped and would now be blocking the exits.

_Why did I call Sherlock again? Oh I know, because I saw Moriarty through that window._  
When John had first awoken here he had found himself in an empty concrete room. It had taken him a little while to connect the dots from his last memory of 221B's living room to this place but when he did he had realised he had been kidnapped.

As soon as that had sunk in he had began to wiggle the ropes on his hands around, looking for a weakness. His army training had allowed John to manage to loosen the poorly tied ropes and escape.

Now John was in an office of some sort and it was looking very likely that he would be recaptured. Slowly he crept out into the hallway and began to make his way down it. _I have to get away from that man. If they don't check his phone they won't know Sherlock's coming and I will have the advantage._

And so will he.

He slipped into another deserted office, only to spot an unlocked window. Scanning the room again, John moved quickly to the window and ran a cautious hand over it, looking for booby traps. Finding no obvious ones he slipped one leg out the window.

It was then something hit the back of his head, causing a rush of pain. John felt someone grab his hand as darkness swarmed over his vision.

* * *

Sherlock found the area John had been talking about in what was record time for him. However he didn't care and that fact barely registered in his mind he was so focused on finding John. It wasn't hard to pick the building he was being held in. It would have been obvious to even the dumbest police officer at Scotland Yard. Moriarty had allowed many of his guards to patrol the streets though in plain clothes and not in groups. Well...obvious groups.

But in the deserted street, even a house with a single person near it would have stood out, let alone one that had people constantly coming and going.

In ten seconds Sherlock had an estimate of the number of people in Moriarty's 'headquarters' and he was beginning to come with a plan. Unfortunately, the plans he was thinking of worked better with two people...

Then five new men came out the back door and threw off Sherlock's calculations.

_There's at least a dozen men in the front room, those five in the back and quite possibly more in the actual house hidden from view. Even with John this would be a challenge…_

Sherlock refused to acknowledge the fact that he was going to need help on this.

* * *

John could feel a sharp sting on his face, pulling him into consciousness. At first he ignored it, trying to return to the peaceful obviousness he had been in, but suddenly the pain sharpened and he felt his eyes opening of their own accord. Moriarty was kneeling before him, hand raised ready to slap his face again. As soon as John's eyes focused on him, Moriarty smiled his grin like a Cheshire Cat's.

'Finally my dear. I was beginning to get worried. I thought my little friend might have seriously hurt you.' He slapped John again, softly this time and stood up.

'You know...that doesn't...help.' John wheezed out. His chest felt like something was sitting on it and he was having trouble doing anymore then breathing. It also hurt. A lot.

'Oh, so you've noticed the broken ribs? Excellent.' Moriarty was now on the other side of the room, sitting on his own chair. 'They're just a little reminder to you, so you won't feel like trying to escape again.'

John just glared. 'I did want to wait until you were awake to give them to you but my friend...have you met my friend? Moran, come in here. I want John to meet you.'

A tall man, at least as tall as Sherlock shuffled into the room. Unlike Sherlock, this man was stocky giving him the appearance of a giant. He also had what Sherlock had taught John to recognise as a military bearing.

'Sebas...' Moriarty's introduction was interrupted by the far off sound of gun fire. With a nod from Moriarty, the newcomer left.

'Just the two of us now, Johnny. Now, who do you think that is?' he smiled.  
John felt a spark of hope inside his chest. Moriarty saw in it his eyes. 'Of course, your 'friend' Sherlock. He doesn't seem to get the message I've been giving him. Shall we tell him it again?'

* * *

Sherlock hated the fact he had had to call Mycroft for help, but it was the only logical thing to do. Mycroft had access to specialised troops who could get him in without alerting Moriarty.  
Supposedly. Sherlock was really going to talk to Mycroft about the quality of his minions because they hadn't even gotten into the building before Moriarty's minions had seen them and a fire fight broke out.

Fortunately though the diversion had allowed Sherlock to get himself down the basement alone. Maybe he would refrain from teasing Mycroft about his weight for a week…day…hour.

Sherlock opened the door and paused momentarily at the sight. Moriarty had a gun and it was pointed at John's head. He was standing behind John, who was tied to a chair in the middle of the room.

'I thought you didn't like to get your hands dirty.' Sherlock said as a greeting.

'I don't. I'm making an exception for you Sherlock. Aren't you proud?'

'No, not really.' Sherlock's eyes flicked around the room and he took one small step forward.  
Moriarty slammed the gun into John's head. 'Don't move my dear. I would hate for me to get nervous.'

'You don't get nervous.'

Moriarty gave a little shrug. 'You're right, I don't.'

'What…do you…want?' John wheezed out from his position. Sherlock quickly focused on him and assessed the injuries he had.

'The same as before. Back off.' Moriarty smiled again. 'Now, I think I had better leave you before your brother's delightful minions show up. Ciao.'

Moriarty smashed his gun into John's head and pushed the chair forward, causing John to fall flat on his face. He then turned and disappeared into the shadows.

Sherlock didn't bother chasing him. He knew Moriarty, knew how his mind worked. There would be a dozen exits that way, many of which were dead ends. It would be impossible or at least highly improbable for someone to catch him in there.  
Besides, John needed help.

* * *

'Will you still chase him?'

Sherlock turned to look at John, who was in the bed beside his chair. John was being forced to stay a few nights in the hospital. Sherlock had decided that the hospital was a very good place to watch both T.V and people and had claimed the chair beside John's bed as his own for the days John was stuck here.

Sherlock had been waiting for John to ask the question he just did for hours. 'Yes.'  
John just nodded. It was the answer he had been expecting. 'You will let me help.' He stated.  
Sherlock opened his mouth to say no, to argue why John couldn't help when he spotted the determined look on John's face. Sighing internally Sherlock just dropped his last case file on John's bed as an answer.

They would find Moriarty again...together.


End file.
